


girl on fire

by Dayadhvam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2250849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayadhvam/pseuds/Dayadhvam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael wants to play house. Mary doesn't like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	girl on fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for blindfold_spn, Jan. 2011; prompt: _Post-5x13, Michael is slow to leave John, wants to play house. Mary catches on in fits and bursts. Think ala Kara and Leoben in BSG._

The alarm starts to trill incessantly at half past seven, the shriek of a dying bird, and Mary forgets her dream as she opens her eyes. Turns her face into her pillow and groans, snaps the alarm off, hears the mattress creak beside her as John slips out of bed for his shift at eight-thirty, regular as clockwork.

"God, it's not bright enough yet," she says, but props herself up anyway. Muted sunlight sifts through the curtains, patterned on the bedspread. Mary may grumble about wanting more sleep, but in the end she’s always wide awake faster than John, who's still stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders, yawning up a storm. She hasn’t lost her old family habits, even if she doesn't do ghoul stake-outs anymore. "I'm thinking oatmeal and scrambled eggs for breakfast. Think the baby’s gonna like it?"

"Mmph," mumbles John. Mary finds his early morning incoherency strangely charming. It's a bit jarring, then, when he straightens up from his slump into a soldier’s bearing and angles his body in her direction.

"Yes, it will," he says, and her husband's mouth slowly curves into a crescent. "That sounds wonderful."

*

There are moments when the lines of his face crease like brand-new leather, when his eyes go smooth and blank as polished glass, when his hands twitch and move with the absence of true reflex. He seems as if he's trying to recall how to look kind. I'll wash the dishes, he tells her, and wipes the plates from the rim to the center rather than his regular center to rim practice. After that she spills water all over his neck and back while passing by the sink, juggling scissors and knife and cup in hand.

He comments, a little surprised: You're usually not this clumsy.

*

On Saturday John comes home early from the garage, his hands still slip-slick with sweat and poorly rubbed-off grease; bends down to plant a sloppy kiss on Mary's cheek once he finds her in the living room. She giggles and squirms away from him on the couch. "Go take a shower, you smell terrible."

"Hey! I try my best."

Mary rattles the pages of the newspaper at him. "Shoo yourself. If you track car oil anywhere you'll be the one scrubbing it off. Somehow you make me love you."

He steps back and looks at her. "It was just meant to be, Mary," he says levelly, and heads for the shower.

She glances after him, then down at the newspaper. The headline of the article on the third page reads: _Grave disturbances go unsolved._

*

"Sorry," Mary says. "I think I added too much salt."

*

She feels John turn onto his side and press a leg between hers, so she tilts her head to look into his face. "Long day?" she says.

"Tedious." John blinks carefully. "Dealing with problems. I like it when I'm with you," he adds. "Gives me a break."

"Nice to hear I'm good for something," Mary mumbles. She stretches her arm up and back, hand under the pillow. She closes her fingers around metal, thin and sturdy—

—shoves her knee right between the legs of this _thing_ , rolls out of bed despite the cold—clenches a knife, silver blade barely visible in the dark, clenches it so hard she can feel the edges of the handle dig into her skin. "In the meantime, I'll have to ask you where you've put my husband," she says, her words ghostly puffs in the air. "I assure you that I don't need to kill you. Yet."

John's eyes are still very dark, dark as pitch, no hint of sulfur yellow. Not yet, she thinks, not yet, and backs up till she can feel the wall behind her. He sits up, looks down at the covers. "I think you're overreacting," he says. His voice is deep and smooth like plum wine. "You don't need to be afraid of me."

"Don't," says Mary, "give me shit—"

His breath on her face, her knee-jerk reaction to bring the knife up and across—and there—flies the blood. John's collarbones are speckled red, but there isn't any sign of pain on his face.

"I don't intend you harm," he whispers in her ear, and she stills, trying hard not to cry out because her wrists are pinned by invisible clamps to the wall so tightly she swears she can feel her bones moaning under the strain—her immobilized legs won't obey her, so no way to kick him off balance. Devil's trap drawn under the bed, and yet somehow he'd gotten right past it, blinked out of bed into thin air before her.

"Funny you saying that," she grits out. "Seeing as you've got me all backed up."

"To prevent you from doing anything that would be unseemly. Hasty." And the creature continues, "I only wish to watch over you and protect your child." He looks her in the eye now. "He's very important to me."

"So what’s _John_? Chopped liver? If you don't give him back—"

"Please," says the thief of her husband's body, almost dismissively. "John won't be able to save you."

"And you can do what you like?" she flings back. "Can't even fool me properly. Can you kiss me like he does?"

And there, she sees his eyes flash, tries hard not to smirk. Hook, line, and—

He still tastes like John, his mouth on hers, slow and slick, sliding over her tongue. His hands drift up her sides and come to rest at her breasts, the press of fingers warm and rough through the thin material of her nightgown, brushing her nipples till she arches forward into his touch and he lets her—kisses her coolly, steadily, like he’s ticking off the seconds—one, two, three, deal made and—

She bites down on his lower lip hard and sharp to the taste of blood in her mouth, jerks her head to the side and feels the skin tear further—takes a step forward and keeps worrying at his lip till some unknown force knocks her back against the wall and she lets go, blood salty on her tongue. Spits frothy saliva out and breathes. Smiles mirthlessly. "You were a bit distracted, seems like," she gasps. "Don't think that I can't hurt you either."

The creature is silent as he licks John's bleeding lip. Then he leans in, exhaling hotly against her brow.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "No matter how many times this happens, _you_ won't be keeping count."

*

The alarm starts to trill incessantly at half past seven, the shriek of a dying bird, and Mary forgets her dream as she opens her eyes. 


End file.
